The Whispering Night (9 page)

"It is over,"
he said quietly, taking a strip of clean linen from Aglette to bind Derica's
arm. "Your bravery astounds me, my lady. I have seen battle hardened
knights handle pain not a morsel as well as you did."

Derica was beyond the
crying stage. Lying back on the pillows as Garren expertly wrapped her arm, she
didn't respond. The wine had taken its toll and she hovered in fitful
unconsciousness.

Garren took longer than
he had to tying off the binding. His gaze moved between Derica's white face and
his work. When he was done wrapping the arm, he kissed it softly. His guilt was
overtaking him completely and he was deeply sorry for her agony.

“Sleep well,
sweetheart,” he murmured.  “You have earned it.”

He collected the basin
and linen next to the bed, preparing to leave her in peace. But Derica’s weak
voice stopped him.

“Do not go,” she
whispered.

He handed the bloody
rags to Aglette. “I thought you were asleep.”

“Please stay.”

Her face was the color
of the linen upon which she rested. Garren sat back down next to her.

“I will not leave you,”
he murmured.

“Promise?”

“On my oath. I will
never leave you.”

Her eyes opened and her
head lolled in his direction. Garren smiled at her as their eyes met. Derica’s
only response was to open her hand, slowly, and lift it with great difficulty.
Garren saw the gesture meant for him and he quickly took her hand, holding it
tightly. With that, Derica closed her eyes once more and sleep claimed her.

CHAPTER FIVE

“I am in no mood for
foolery. My daughter has been injured this night and my patience is at an end.”

“I assure you, I bring
no foolery, my lord. Fourteen hundred men have landed at the mouth of the
Welland River. Nottingham is a two day’s ride from there.  Can you imagine such
a force for our cause, my lord?”

A man dressed in shabby
clothes and a patched eye sat near the hearth, warming himself. The bugs that
found home in his garments and against his skin were jumping off of him due to
the searing heat. Bertram watched small, black things fall onto his stone
floor.  He moved his foot when a dark dot with legs moved too close.

“You’re sure?” Bertram
asked.

The man nodded. “I have
eyes everywhere, my lord. I trust their word.”

Bertram digested the
information. The man was a spy, someone who had worked for the prince’s cause
for several years. He looked and acted like a mad peasant, making him the
perfect spy. He could go almost anywhere and glean whatever knowledge he
could.  His network was laced with relatives and other unscrupulous
acquaintances on the prince’s payroll. More often than not, the information
they provided was startlingly accurate and Bertram was well aware of the fact.

Which was why he
considered the man’s statements carefully.  “Teutonic mercenaries,” he
muttered. “Fat, evil, well paid murderers.”

“Moving for Nottingham
Castle.”

“Then it is up to the Earl
of Nottingham to amass them until the prince is prepared to move. Any news of
the Irish mercenaries?”

The dirty man shook his
head. “I have not heard, my lord. The hope is to move them through Liverpool,
far to the north and away from Richard’s ever-present eyes. Their destination
is Bolton Castle and the prince’s supporter there.”

Bertram knew that, but
the Irish mercenaries were not his concern. Neither were the Teutonic. His
direct concern was a mass of French mercenaries due to arrive at Great Yarmouth
sometime before the month was out.  Weather was unusually turbulent this
spring, making crossing the channel difficult. Time frames for the prince’s
paid armies had been sorely distorted by it, making future plans difficult to
calculate.

Bertram stood up,
clasping his hands behind his back. In the shadows, Lon and Alger listened
intently; they were the only family members allowed to witness the exchange.
They had known when they saw the spy ride into the ward earlier that evening
that something was afoot.  Alberic always brought with him information, bugs,
gossip and intrigue.

“So we wait,” Bertram
said slowly. “The Irish at Bolton, the Teutonic in Nottingham, and the French
at Framlingham. Other castles will house more mercenaries when the time comes
and when we slip the noose around England’s midsection, we will divide Richard’s
country.  If all proceeds as it should, John should have the throne by
Christmas.”

“Nothing except
Richard’s armies,” Lon rumbled. “You speak as if his supporters sleep while we
amass. You know as well as I do that if we have spies, then so does he.”

“I have been in the
prince’s service since the days he rebelled against his father,” Alberic
scratched his cheek where an insect bit at him. “There is an entire community
of those who secretly serve the prince and his brother. We are as shadows,
flitting between sunrise and sunset, ghosts that appear and then disappear just
as quickly. We are fleeting figments of the imaginations, as deadly as a viper
if one draws too close.  Sometimes I believe our task is more difficult than
the knights who fight with weapons and fire.”

“I cannot disagree,”
Bertram said. He watched more bugs leap onto his floor. “If there is nothing
else, then I say you should leave. ‘Tis unwise for you to remain here for any
length of time.”

Alberic stood up,
stiffly, feeling his age this night. It was cold outside, threatening rain, but
he dare not ask for shelter from de Rosa.  They both well understood his role,
and he was clearly not a guest. Slipping from the solar without another word,
he made his way out of the tower and into the bailey.  The gates were still
open, even in the night, and his worn mule was tethered outside the walls.  As
he hurried across the ward, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible,
something caught his attention over by the western tower.

Alberic paused, dipping
into the shadow of the wall as he was so used to doing. Hiding was second
nature to him. He watched a large figure cross from the large western tower and
into the stable block. Puzzled, he tried to follow but stopped short of the
wooden steps into the structure.  He could not risk entering the stables and
being cornered. He stood there a moment, unsure what to do, unsure of what he
had seen. But he knew he must seek Bertram.

Bertram and Alger were
still in the solar, deep in discussion. Lon had since vanished.  Alberic paused
at the solar door and removed the soiled cape that covered his head.

“My lord?” he said.

Bertram looked up from
his conversation with his brother, somewhat annoyed to see the dirty spy
standing in the doorway.

“I told you to leave.”

“I was, my lord,”
Alberic took a hesitant step into the room. “But… I saw something….”

“Well, what is it, man,
and be quick about it.”

The spy wasn’t sure
where to begin. “As I was leaving, I saw a man come from the western tower and
enter the stables.”

“What man?”

“He was large, quite
large. Young and strong, with light-colored hair.”

Lon looked at his
brother. “He must mean le Mon. If he has left Derica’s side, then she must be
doing well enough.”

“Now is our chance to
see to her ourselves.”

“Agreed. The man was as
unmoving as a guard dog.”

“My lord?”

The spy was demanding
attention, interrupting their conversation.  Bertram snapped at him
impatiently. “So you have seen my daughter’s intended. What of him?”

Alberic appeared taken
aback. “He is to marry your daughter?”

“Yes, what of it?”

The spy would not be
intimidated; he was, in fact, growing suspicious and disturbed. “I know that
man, my lord.”

Bertram’s temper took a
strange, cooling twist. “You do?”

“Aye, my lord.”

“Where do you know him
from?”

Alberic thought
carefully on his reply. “As you know, my lord, I have been in the service of
the prince for many years. I have seen many things, and many people. Those of
us who covertly serve our masters tend to hear of one another, if only by
reputation. It is wise to know one’s enemies. Sometimes, however, we are
fortunate enough to put a face to the name or reputation.”

“Get to the point.”

“What do you know of
your daughter’s intended, my lord?”

Bertram’s temper flared
again. “Alberic, if you do not tell me your meaning, I will throw you from this
room. You waste my time.”

The spy cocked a long,
dirty eyebrow. “I think not, my lord,” he said coolly. “I think you betray your
prince.”

Bertram moved for him,
but Alger stopped him.  In spite of the insult, he suspected there was true
motivation behind it. “Explain yourself before I let my brother gut you.”

“Gut me and you will not
know who your daughter’s intended truly is.”

“Le mon?” Bertram
glanced at his brother, a thousand unspoken words of doubt and fear in his
expression. “Who is he?”

Alberic put his filthy
hood back on and turned for the door. His plan was to go directly to the prince
with what he had just seen. But he would do de Rosa the favor of letting him
know that his fate would soon be sealed, and his loyalties questioned.

“That man,” he said
slowly, ”works for William Marshall.”

***

“My lady?” Came the
whisper. “My lady, are you awake?”

Derica heard the
murmuring, a soft voice in her ear. She sighed deeply as she emerged from her
warm slumber, opening her bleary eyes to see Aglette’s pale face. Blinking, she
struggled to orient herself in the bright room.

“Aglette?” she yawned.
“What is it? What time is it?”

“’Tis nearly noon, my
lady,” Aglette said. “Something awful has happened!”

“What’s so awful?” She
gasped as she moved her arm the wrong way; it was stiff and sore but,
thankfully, had no signs of poison yet. She looked around the room. “Where is
Sir Garren?”

Aglette was obviously
distraught. The more lucid Derica became, the more she realized her servant had
been crying.

“He is in the vault,”
Aglette whispered.

“What for?”

Aglette burst into sobs,
struggling to contain them. “I have heard they are going to kill him!”

Derica was instantly
awake.  “What on earth for?”

The maid shook her head.
“I do not know, my lady. I only heard from the soldiers that your father and
brothers captured him early this morning and placed him there.”

Derica was seized by
confusion and anger. Sitting up, she bolted from the bed as fast as she could,
looking for some manner of clothing to wear. The room was swaying and moving
was difficult, but she would not let it stop her. She had to find out what had
happened to Garren.

“Please, my lady,”
Aglette begged. “You are unwell. Perhaps you should….”

Derica waved her off harshly.
“I swear that my family is no better than a pack of mad dogs. The moment Garren
is alone, they descend upon him like vicious beasts.”

She yanked off the gown
she wore with the tattered, bloodied sleeve and struggled to step into a
garment of soft gray lamb’s wool.  Aglette rushed to help her, both of the
struggling to pull the sleeve over her bandaged arm. Fortunately, the sleeve
was loose enough that it fit, but barely. The tight material caused Derica some
pain, but she fought it. She had no time for her discomfort.

Aglette tried to run a
comb through her long, tangled curls, but Derica would have no part of it.
Fumbling a pair of slippers onto her feet, she moved from her chamber as fast
as her shaky legs would carry her. Aglette stumbled behind her, fastening the
dress so that it would stay on her mistress.  By the time they entered the
ward, Derica was flushed and weak, but her determination speared her on. The
day was bright and cool, and she received some curious looks from soldiers and
peasants alike as she sprinted across the bailey in a disheveled mess.

The vault of Framlingham
was located in the bowels of the gatehouse tower, an enormous place that
smelled like rot.  A soldier guarding the entrance tried to keep her away, but
she ignored him and descended the narrow stone stairs.

 The steps came to a
leveled room, cold with stone and mold. Torches lit the walls and there were
several people standing about, making the small chamber crowded. Two
iron-grated cells were at the far end of the room and a hole in the floor held
a pit dungeon. Derica’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, recognizing her father
and uncles.

Bertram spoke first.
“Derica! What…?”

She cut her father
short. “Where is he?”

Bertram moved towards
her, his arms outstretched. “Derica, my love, you must….”